


Tight

by Boudoir_Writer



Series: Deal [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Sex, Bottom Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Deals, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mild Humiliation, Minions, Mob!Nicky, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sex to pay off debts, Smoking, Snarky Joe, Top Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Under-negotiated Kink, maybe if you squint, no powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-20 13:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30005667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boudoir_Writer/pseuds/Boudoir_Writer
Summary: “Your friend, Booker,” the Italian says. “Did he tell you how much he owes me?”
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Deal [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2214792
Comments: 25
Kudos: 128





	Tight

**Author's Note:**

> This just happened - guess I hadn’t reached my filth quota recently. Also, I got myself in a dark/top/mean Nicky hole - not sure why (or how to get out of it)! 🤷🏻♀️ But I’m not complaining and neither is Joe...
> 
> Please mind the tags, and as usual let me know if I missed any. If you’d like to check in with me before reading you can find me on tumblr @ boudoirwriter  
> Unbetaed, sorry!

Fuck Booker, Joe thinks, not for the first time tonight. Or ever. Fuck Booker and his fucking grand plans. And fuck  _ this _ . His fingers scrabble at the table for purchase but he only manages to swipe a stack of poker chips off it. They scatter to the floor, but the rainfall doesn’t cover the gasp wrenched out of him as the Italian adds another finger.

“Tight, are you?” the man notes, a hint of derision in his voice. “Not so tight after I’m done with you.”

There’s a bark of laughter from somewhere in the room and Joe is aware once more that his debasement has an eager audience. Heat would rise to his cheeks if they weren’t already burning so hot he starts to worry the skin might peel off. He clenches his teeth against the sting of humiliation, reaches below his skin, where he’s very pissed off.

“Really?” he grits out. “‘Cause I heard you are  _ small _ .”

He expects a punch in the kidney or worse, but the man behind him chuckles and has Joe almost biting his tongue when his fingers twist and nudge him just right. To add insult to injury, Joe’s stupid dick is very much on board with the proceeding. But then his dick got him in trouble before. Like his mouth. And his friends.

The fingers slip out of him and there’s the telltale nudge of a thick cock against Joe’s rim. Joe heaves a weary sigh, swallows.

“Why don’t you tell me?” The man hums and then starts pushing in. And pushing and  _ pushing _ until he’s there, everywhere, carving a space for himself, whether Joe can accommodate or not. Breath escapes him in a silent scream, a kind of hiss, there are tears springing to his eyes. His brain might have gone offline. “What, lost your voice already? Haven’t even made you scream yet.”

More laughter, more friction - spit and skin and heat.

Fucking Booker, Joe thinks, trying to find some purchase against the table, because each thrust is making him slide forward, chest slick with sweat, hands damp with it, and his hips keep banging into the edge. He’s going to be bruised as hell tomorrow. If he gets to live until tomorrow, that is.

But the discomfort of it is an afterthought, it does nothing to abate the need that somehow got his claws in him, that makes him tilt his hips and push back and seek more.

“That's all you’ve got?” He inquires. Well, tries to. He’s a bit breathless, all right? At least it’s easy to let annoyance at himself and his poor life choices bleed through. “I’m falling asleep here.”

The man laughs aloud, and Joe can easily picture him, the column of his pale throat, the wild eyes, the dangerous mouth. He doesn’t miss a beat though, large hands gripping harder into Joe’s hips, fucking him deeper, meaner,  _ better _ .

“I thought that - ah - you were going to make me scream?” Joe adds while he still can, because he’s never learnt to make things easy for himself, he’s never learnt to shut up and take it.

Fingers burrow into his curls then, grip and twist and pull. His back arches to keep the strain off his neck, spine so tense he thinks it might snap. It’s even deeper like this, he feels it all the way to his throat and then the pace increases and Joe yelps.

He bites his lips, hard enough to break the skin, but the damage is done.

“There we go.” The tone is condescending, some faint amusement underneath - a told you so. Beyond that more chuckles and comments from the assembled minions that Joe can’t be bothered to listen to, too busy being pissed off at the bastard, too busy being fucked stupid.

Still, Joe won’t be subdued. He will not. So instead he clenches down hard on the next thrust, makes the Italian groan.

“Fuck you.” He grins to the room. He must look like a madman, blood in his teeth, sweat pouring off him in buckets. Maybe he is. Maybe he lost it. He’s done some stupid shit in his life, but this - this fucking takes the cake.

His face is all but slammed back on the table, more chips spilling off it, one rolling under his chest and digging in painfully against a rib. Then a hand reaches between his legs, palms his balls, squeezes - not hard, just enough that Joe chokes on his spit, clenches and is fucked open again. And again. And  _ again _ .

The room goes dark, or maybe it’s him, it’s his eyes rolling back in his skull, hard to keep thinking straight with the racket, like peals of laughter and static noise and something like a fire alarm.

Wait. That’s him. That’s him screaming, wailing, coming with a splatter on the floor - so fucking undignified, goddamnit.

There’s the distant realisation that the Italian must have come too. There’s the loss of heat against his back, then he’s slipping out. Joe hisses. Fuck he’s going to feel it for  _ days _ .

But first, he needs to get out of here, easier said than done with his thighs turned to jelly. He pushes off the table, grits his teeths and locks his legs once he’s pulled his trousers up, shoves his spent dick back in them.

When he turns to look at the Italian, he finds him lighting up a cigarette, barely a wrinkle on his bespoke suit. If not for the faint sheen to his cheeks and the blown pupils you couldn’t tell that moments ago he had been skillfully rearranging Joe’s insides.

“So we’re good?” Joe blurts and he’s not nervous, he’s  _ not _ .

Heavy lidded eyes laugh at him though those lips barely twitch. Just like that the sweat on Joe’s back goes cold.

“What?” He snaps, because he’s tired and sore and so very fucking  _ done _ .

“Your friend, Booker,” the Italian says. “Did he tell you how much he owes me?”

Someone with a grating voice pipes up from the sidelines when Joe can’t produce an answer. “Fifty thousand.”

Joe’s eyes might be bugging out of his skull.

Fifty thousand?

“Now this -“ The Italian clicks his tongue. “This was fun. Wasn’t it guys?”

More laughter and chuckles.

“But was it worth fifty thousand?” A shrug. A no.

“Plus interest,” the same voice pipes up again.

Joe clenches his teeth, clenches his fists at his sides.

He’s going to  _ kill _ Booker.

“So?”

The next puff of smoke hits him in the face, makes his nostrils itch and flare. When it dissipates, he gets an unobstructed view of the man's sharp smile.

“So I guess I was right,” he flicks ashes to the floor, eyes not leaving Joe’s. “Won’t be so tight after I’m done with you.”

And Joe tells himself his dick doesn’t twitch at that. It  _ doesn’t _ .

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you liked it. Joe sure did! ;)


End file.
